


Dusha Naraspashku

by hitlikehammers



Series: and love alive (or: The Ongoing Saga of the Belarusian Bros) [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Became Much Less Broken Once They Did, Coming Full-Circle, Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance, Two Broken Men Walked Into a Bar and Realized They Really Needed to Go Back Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>dusha naraspashku,</b> душа нараспашку  (n): soul wide open; an "unbuttoned," unfettered soul.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The Director wants to see Sergeant Barnes. Steve's a ball of nerves, but really: there's no need to have worried.</p><p>Bucky's just got a long-overdue drink that he's owed, that's all.</p><p>  <span class="small">Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1604633">Matryoshka</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1655918">Toska</a>, in which Bucky Barnes and Phil Coulson unwittingly share a drink, and then finally go home to the men they love.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusha Naraspashku

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the inimitable [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) for the speedy beta! You're a dream, my dear <3
> 
> As always: my Russian is little beyond rudimentary and half-wrong, and the Internet is full of inaccuracies, so my apologies for whatever mistakes are made.

His mouth’s pressed tight around Bucky’s nipple, Bucky’s hard-on nudging hot against his crotch, and it’s lazy the way Bucky’s hips just kind of tilt, kind of sway as Steve licks and nips and memorizes every moan that comes with, it’s lazy and it’s gorgeous: but that’s where they are, how they are, when that god _awful_ song interrupts them.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Steve growls against Bucky’s sternum, which is already starting to shake with laughter as it bubbles up through the ribs, and as much as Steve wants to grouse, he can’t, not quite, because when Bucky laughs like that, the world is _right_.

“I fucking told you to change that ringtone,” Steve pouts, as Bucky’s eyes sparkle through the start of the next horrible verse: _Who vows to fight like a man for what's right, night and day?_

“I ain’t your underling,” Bucky smirks, and when Steve raises an eyebrow and nods indicatively at the position they’re in—Bucky sprawled beneath his chest, between his thighs upon their bed—Bucky just surges up a bit, the line of his dick hard enough, hot enough against Steve’s own to force a gasp from his lips as Bucky nips at the corner of his mouth. 

“And it ain’t _your_ ringtone,” Bucky grins cheekily before deadpanning with absolute _glee_ : “Mr. Star-Spangled Man.”

And Steve’s taking him in, just drinking in that playfulness, that joy he never thought he’d get, not _ever_ : he’s soaking in it, basking in it, and when it’s Bucky who quirks a brow his way it almost ends him, almost sends him over an edge he didn’t know was already so damned near.

“Wanna finish with your plan?” Bucky damn near _purrs_ , and Steve feels it, the moment when all that giddiness he’s been taking in consumes him and starts to overflow and Steve grinds down, hisses against the line of Bucky’s throat:

“Once I tell whoever’s on the other end of that line to wait until a decent hour before they call back.”

“Which would be _after_ you’ve finished with your plan.”

Steve smirks as he rolls over, reaches for the phone that’s vibrating against the bedside table: “ _If_ you change the goddamned ringtone.”

Bucky hums noncommittally. “Hoboken to Spokane, man,” he muses as Steve slides a finger across the screen to answer the call. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

As Steve raises the phone to his ear, Bucky reaches to cup a deviously soft hand against the outline of his cock, leaving the gasp that escapes Steve’s throat to echo down the now-connected line, and fuck _all_ , Bucky’s cackling at him with as much restraint as he can manage: shaking violently with the effort to keep his giggling quiet.

Steve’s going to fucking _kill_ him.

"Sergeant Barnes' phone," Steve clears his throat, answers in as chipper, as composed of a voice as he can when all he _wants_ to say is: _Sergeant Asshat's phone, go away until I've sucked him off because he's absolutely gorgeous when he's lying here all fucked out in the morning and I don’t care who you are, I lost the better part of a century with this beautiful idiot and now he’s in my bed and you are not depriving me of that._

It is a _really_ good thing he _doesn’t_ say that, though, because it turns out the call’s important. And that the caller is a woman.

And Steve doesn’t care what century he’s in: you just don’t talk to women like that.

“Right, yes,” he says, swallowing as Bucky looks at him, curious, but his casual languor is undampened by the way Steve can feel his own eyes widen. “Yes ma’am. I’ll inform him immediately, yes.” Steve can feel something tightening in him, but he bites it down from the inside, because he’ll be damned if he lets it bleed into his tone, lets on too easy so that Bucky can jab at him for being a worrier then, and a worrier now. “Of course ma’am.”

Bucky looks at him expectantly as he disconnects the call. 

“You’ve been requested.”

Bucky’s brows shoot up, but somehow his body just sprawls more loosely over the mattress, his limbs akimbo, his chest splayed out like a gift, like an offering, and Steve doesn’t want to look away from how it moves as he breathes.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Bucky shrugs, and the sunlight hits his profile, just so. “I’m a hot commodity.” 

Steve agrees, of course he does, but this little shit is almost making him forget why the phone call made him nervous in the first place, and that’s not gonna fly.

“You’ve been requested by the Director.”

And it’s telling in the best way, the absolute _best possible way_ , when Bucky doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t flinch, when his eyes don’t darken, when they keep that shine in them that speaks of mischief and depth and everything Steve loves like the goddamned air in his own _lungs_ —it is the best thing when Bucky just breathes out, when his lips curl, and he doesn’t assume the worst, doesn’t read into what a _Director_ that's _summoning_ him might mean; when he jokes with real humor: 

“Director?” he asks, all feigned-incredulity. “Damnit, Stevie, you remember what I was like in that Christmas pageant, don’t you be signing me up for no plays.”

It is the absolute _best thing_.

But there’s a knot in Steve’s stomach for it, all the same.

“C’mon, babe,” Bucky nudges him with his heel until Steve settles back down next to him, pressed into his skin. “Guy’s dating Barton, right?” He kisses Steve’s temple, and some of the tension in Steve’s muscles gives way. “Probably a crazy if he’s banging the Hawk, but he can’t be _all_ bad.”

“He’s not,” Steve’s quick to emphasize, because sure: he’d been skeptical in the beginning, about rebuilding what he’d risked everything to break down, about reforming the very thing that had almost _lost_ him _everything_ , but Coulson—Coulson with his open face and his suits and his absolute competence and the kind of bravery Steve remembers well from a time gone by, and those _trading cards_ : Coulson’s a good man, and Steve shouldn’t be nervous enough about him wanting to see Bucky that Bucky can read it on him, no matter how well Bucky’s always been able to read every damned thing about Steve, from the pattern of his breathing to the color in his cheeks.

He _shouldn’t_ be nervous. He shouldn’t.

But Steve’s still not used to _having_ , where before, there was only losing.

Steve’s still scared, that way.

“Come on,” Bucky turns him around so they’re lying chest to chest, and Bucky’s warm, Bucky is so fucking warm.

“We haven’t even hit Cincinatti, let alone Spokane.”

And when a laugh bubbles out of Steve without his own permission, that’s it. That’s the reason for the nerves, for the tenseness, for everything: because Steve isn’t used to not losing.

And he cannot, he will not, lose _this_.

_____________________________________

“You’re gonna pop those.”

Steve’s gaze snaps up from where he’s pulling at the collar of his button-up—not casual, because if Sam’s ever harping on a thing, it’s that you never want to look underdressed from something important, but not too dressy either, because Nat insists that sends the wrong message, and an All-American Smile like his beats a tailored suit any day, and Steve himself doesn’t really dwell on either end of the argument until it’s Bucky, until Bucky’s being called into Coulson’s office and it’s like they’re kids and the nuns are after them for talking out of turn, and Steve’s scared Bucky’ll take the fall for him, again, and it’s the same thing all over again except this is their _lives_ , not the schoolyard, and what if they think Bucky’s a threat, what if they’re going to try to make him leave, what if they’re questioning where his head’s at when Steve knows better than anyone that this is the love of his goddamned _life_ and there ain’t nothing else to be said about it, nothing else to be done other than to grab this man and keep him as long as Bucky will let him, as long as Bucky will stand next to Steve and call Steve his, and if Steve’s standing in this elevator on the way to meet their fate, if Steve’s standing here worrying at the collar of his shirt until the buttons start to strain against their holes, then god _damnit_ —

“Shit, Steve, _breathe_ ,” Bucky interrupts his train of thought with his hand on Steve’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles just near his collarbone and it’s just like it used to be when Steve couldn’t breathe because his lungs, his own physical heart was the threat instead of the metaphorical one, the one that matters more, in the now, but there’s something in Bucky’s low tone, his soft voice: something gentle and affectionate and _good_ in it that drips into Steve’s veins and lets him cut some of the tension, just a little. 

“You’re panting like I’m on my knees here, taking you apart,” Bucky’s mouth curves, but his tone doesn’t change, and his hand doesn’t stop stroking across Steve’s chest, Steve’s bones. “Need me to give you a quickie, calm those jitters?” 

And Steve lets out a shaky laugh, and that’s exactly why Bucky breathes out the words in the first place, and Steve loves him.

 _Christ_ , but Steve loves him.

“You _do_ realize he didn’t call _you_ in for a meeting, right?” Bucky’s hands are both on him, now, working the muscles of his shoulders and teasing out the tangible tension, starting to ease through the tightness that’s bigger than what he can touch with his hands.

“He might as well have,” Steve breathes out, and it’s the truth of it, and he doesn’t have to say anything else, because between them it’s understood: ‘til the end of the line.

Together, or not at all.

Bucky stares at him for a few long seconds, and Steve lets the gaze hold, stares back and takes in everything that lives in those eyes before Bucky ducks his head to the hollow of Steve’s throat where he exhales, soft and wistful and full of something fierce: “ _Punk_.”

“Jerk,” Steve follows, and when he buries his face in Bucky’s hair and just breathes, that’s what steadies him; that’s what calms.

Bucky lifts his head and grips Steve at the base of the neck, just at the juts of his clavicle, and it’s a solid thing: it’s a sure thing, and it makes Steve feel grounded, feel safe, and he can smell Brooklyn around them, for the blink of an eye—he can feel them in a different time, as different people, and yet still like _this_. 

“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky coaxes. “You and me? We’ve beat down just about everything that’s ever been in our way,” he nudges Steve’s chin with the bridge of his nose and lifts his own face even with Steve’s, leaning in to take a kiss.

“You say this Coulson’s a stand-up kinda guy,” he tilts his head, and his eyes are all easy confidence, all surety where Steve’s built out of caution, and they’ve always fit together like this, one’s fault lines covered with the other’s sheer resolve. “What can he possibly have on that Red Head you gave what-for, or those other Hydra fuckers we took out?”

Bucky’s got a point. Bucky’s got a real good point, and the fact is that Steve would give up anything, take out anyone, renounce any obligation, any vow in order to keep the one he’s made to Bucky, the one he’s always made to _Bucky_.

“S’you and me,” Bucky breathes against his lips, barely pulling back as the elevator slows, and the doors slide open with a ding. 

“Ain’t nothing to worry about.” He looks at Steve for a second, thoughtful before he grabs Steve’s hand, squeezes tight and leans in, presses lips to lips. “Promise.”

And when he pulls back, steps out with a smile at Steve that’s all honey and heat, Steve remembers all over again that it wasn’t just Bucky who followed that skinny kid from Brooklyn—it wasn’t Steve who’d always led the way.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the woman at reception greets politely, if blandly, from her seat; Bucky smiles at her. “Captain Rogers.”

“Ma’am,” Steve nods, but he should know better than to think that was the end of it; he should know better than to miss the way that Bucky grins. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Bucky slides up to the desk, eyes damn well glowing as his voice drizzles like syrup, smooth and sweet. “I sure hope this lovely day’s been treating you well.”

Steve rolls his eyes, leans back and watches the show: he really should have known better than to worry about this, about any of this, because if Bucky had been _Bucky_ for the past seventy years, hell.

He’d have charmed the pants off the Germans, the Russians, and every fucking Hydra agent he could find. 

“That still blows my fucking mind, man.” Steve doesn’t have to turn to face the voice that’s far too close to his ear, because there’re only three people who can sneak up on Steve like that, and one’s in front of him, working that timeless Barnes magic, and another’s a woman, and it’s not a woman’s voice that drips with awe and real _envy_ at his back.

“I mean, the history books always talked about how smooth he was,” Clint marvels, “but god _damn_.” 

Steve pretends not to notice the way Clint’s appreciative gaze doesn’t stop at the receptionist’s face; lingers longer on Bucky than simple admiration warrants.

“Did the Director call you in, as well?” Steve asks dryly, instead, implying absolutely everything he can think of to shove into a tone, into the subtext.

Clint’s answering grin is fucking _wicked_.

“Always.” And the way Clint clicks his tongue with a wink, it’s downright lecherous, and it only gets worse as Clint’s eyes wander over Steve’s shoulder, his grin pulling wider. “Speak of the devil.”

“Barton,” and Coulson’s closing the door to his office with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t you have other perches to squawk from?” 

Clint smirks as Coulson approaches them, and Steve can’t help but notice that as the Director passes close, his hand lingers behind Clint’s body, and Steve’s not imagining it when Clint’s eyes widen, and Coulson’s lips quirk, and Steve applauds their attempt at subtlety, in principle.

It’s just, mostly, if there’s going to be ass-squeezing in public, he wishes they’d work at that subtlety thing a _little_ harder. 

Coulson _is_ the Director, after all, and a hero of war to boot. Steve’s got a mental image of him to maintain.

“Rogers,” Coulson nods his way, cool as anything. “Good to see you.”

Steve opens his mouth to return the greeting, but as it happens, he never gets the chance. 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

Three sets of eyes turn toward Bucky, who’s standing, gaping in their direction, while the receptionist frowns up at him, utterly forgotten.

Steve tries not to panic after the first thirty seconds of Bucky’s staring, mouth moving without any sound: he’s a worrier, he’s a worrier by nature but it’s concerning, as the moments drag by, and Bucky’s eyes are still bugging out, his throat’s still working around something that might be appalling, might be impossible, and Steve’s damn near to rushing to him and seeing what’s gone wrong, what’s snapped in him, what’s given way when Bucky finally finds his voice and points, just fucking points and gasps:

“You’re the guy.”

He’s walking toward them, and it’s only after a step, then two, that Steve realizes that Bucky’s not looking at Steve, or Clint, but at Coulson.

Just Coulson.

“You’re the _guy_ , and Barton,” Bucky glances toward Clint for a split second, and Steve didn’t think it was possible, but Bucky’s eyes widen even more—and Steve knows those eyes like he knows the cut of his pulse: and he wants to know, very much, what could make them do a thing he’s never seen before.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky damn near _squeaks_ as he waves his hand between Clint and Coulson, and it’s not doing much to quell Steve’s unease, Steve’s growing fear for Bucky’s sanity when Bucky declares, near-hysterical: 

“You’re _his_ guy!”

Steve’s about to step in, to go to Bucky and fix whatever this _is_ that’s all caught up like terror in his chest, but it’s then that he sees it: the near-wonder in Bucky’s eyes, all flying cars and _I thought you were smaller_ and _I’d never forget if I could help it_ ; the smirk on Coulson’s lips as he watches Bucky with something knowing, something admiring, something grateful before he speaks.

“в конце концов.” 

Steve blinks.

What the _hell_?

“Your accent,” Bucky says, and it’s a level pair of words, all control and careful articulation, but Steve can read Bucky—or else, he thinks he can, still, even if he can’t understand what’s happening before his eyes; Steve can read Bucky, and he sees the way he shakes with laughter on the inside, if not on the out.

“Is shit, don’t worry,” Coulson tosses back, a good-humored edge as he narrows his eyes to match a bitter smirk. “I figured that out.”

And then Bucky lets the laughter spill forth, short but honest, and Steve doesn’t care, in that moment, that he’s confused as all get-out: Bucky’s laughter is always a privilege, better than the sun in the sky.

When Bucky’s snickering dies down, and Coulson’s smile has stretched all the farther for its appearance, Bucky tilts his head, considering, before he nods.

“I see it,” he says simply. “The lips.”

Coulson’s eyes widen for a moment before he inclines his head in Steve’s direction for reasons unknown as he nods just the same.

“The eyes,” the Director agrees, though damn if Steve knows what to.

“Granted, we’re not in Brooklyn,” Coulson shrugs, and Bucky’s grin cracks in the middle, deigns to show teeth. “But I think I’m overdue for my round.”

Bucky snorts. “You’re totally buying me something better than that fucking swill in Minsk.”

Minsk, Steve thinks. Minsk.

Bucky’d mentioned Minsk, said he’d been there, said he’d come straight from—

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” Coulson chides, but it’s lukewarm at best.

“I carried your drunk ass up those stairs and negotiated your room for the night,” Bucky counters, crossing his arms over his chest pointedly. “ _And_ I left you the last of my Tylenol. I think I’m entitled to fucking push whatever I want.”

Coulson bites his lower lip, tilts his head back and forth for show, it seems, before he concedes: “Fair enough.”

Steve, admittedly, is mostly just stuck on the image of Director Phil Coulson, falling-down drunk.

“You’re driving though, right?” Bucky’s saying, and his eyes are close to glittering, though Steve can’t think of why. “I mean, I have heard a whole _lot_ about this Lola.”

Oh right. That’s why.

“Just because you’re entitled to push it,” Coulson frowns, “doesn’t mean you’re entitled to bring Lola into this.”

He makes a show of taking his keys from his pocket and handing them to the receptionist for safe keeping. 

“Killjoy, man,” Bucky pouts, but follows Coulson back toward the elevator with a lightness to his body, to his bearing that it does Steve’s heart real fucking _good_ to see, regardless of what adds up here, and what doesn’t.

Still, though. If the pieces in his head are making a whole that’s anywhere near the _truth_ , then, well, _shit_.

Steve might just owe Phil Coulson a drink, and a heartfelt thank you. 

Or a fruit basket. Sam says there’s nothing that expresses gratitude like a gift that speaks to good nutrition. 

Though that might be bullshit.

“Rogers.”

Clint’s got a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and he’s staring toward Coulson and Bucky with as dumbfounded an expression as Steve feels this all warrants, really—which is a rare thing, when Clint’s penchant for overstatement actually fits the mold. 

“Stark’s got some shit that might even get _you_ on your way to tipsy,” he says simply. “And I mean, your boy all fish-mouthing and those two being Belarusian Bros, now? We’re both going to need it tonight.”

Truly. Paradigm shifts like this—though _really_ , Steve’s still stuck on _Phil Coulson drunk_—do require a stronger tonic than the norm.

Steve’s letting Clint lead the way toward the elevator that Bucky’s holding open for them when he catches Bucky’s gaze, catches the way that Bucky’s watching him with the kind of unadulterated joy that Steve still can’t quite contain, and _god_ , Steve thinks: he’s beautiful.

He’s _everything_.

“We’ll have to think of different toasts,” Bucky says idly, with the kind of giddy warmth that makes Steve want to wrap around him and never, ever leave the heat of him, the feel of him.

“Yeah,” Coulson smiles, and it’s a soft thing Steve’s never seen before, and it does something to Clint when he sees it, changes something small but _true_ in that smartass that feels just shy of miraculous. “I’m not complaining about that one.”

Bucky’s smile grows, and Steve thinks: paradigm shifts.

Maybe all the losing is behind them now; maybe.

Maybe this time, all the good will get to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> And so ends (probably) this little series. Thank you for coming along for the ride—I hope it was worthwhile ;)
> 
> And of course: [tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if you like.


End file.
